


Jingle Bombs

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humour, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This year, John Watson is determined to enjoy a quiet and peaceful holiday season with his flatmate. But combine Sherlock Holmes, a strangely decorated Christmas tree, a goose, and far too much punch, and the catastrophe is imminent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jingle Bombs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thescreechowl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thescreechowl).



> This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Written for my awesome tumblr-friend thescreechowl. You know why and I can't thank you enough. Merry Christmas! *hugs*

*M*E*R*E*T*R*I*C*I*O*U*S*

  
_December 25, 1:17 am_

  
London. A sea of twinkling lights and grumpy people working the nightshift. Snowflakes, tinted varying shades of grey by the smog, flutter softly to the ground where they instantly turn to mush. It's too cold for rain but too warm to turn the phrase 'walking on thin ice' into something a bit more literal and neck-breaking. The city is as calm and peaceful as it ever gets.

  
Let's zoom in a bit, aiming our focus at a well-known address. Quite possibly the best-known address in England, in all honesty, because although the Prime Minister residing in No. 10 Downing Street has most definitely heard of it, the reverse can't be said about one of the occupants of 221b Baker Street. In fact, he doesn't even know the current PM's name. He doesn't need to - he knows the position is held by an idiot and that's enough to go on, isn't it?

  
221b Baker Street. Let's take a closer look then, shall we?

  
The windows of the notorious flat are dark - a rather uncommon occurence at this time of night. Both inhabitants are in, though, and they are still up.

  
Well, maybe 'up' is not quite the correct term. In fact, their current position is better described as 'sprawled on the floor'. This is directly related to the rather sudden onset of darkness a couple of seconds earlier.

  
If there _was_ light, this is what you would see:

  
John Watson, army doctor, blogger and partner in crime-solving of one Sherlock Holmes, is lying flat on his back on the floor. He is surrounded by various Christmas decorations, tinsel, the tattered remains of a Christmas goose, bits and pieces of paper, bullet casings, pine needles and two empty glasses. There is a bundle of mistle toe hanging from the ceiling directly above his head and Sherlock Holmes' face pressed to his crotch.

  
Their current position can be traced back to the fact that the Christmas goose has just exploded. _Of course._

  
And here is why ...

  
*****

  
_December 24, 6:48 pm_

  
John Watson toed off his boots and closed the door with a heavy sigh of relief. He had escaped the clinic a full hour later than originally intended, having spent all day treating sore throats, first degree burns and far too many cases of the common cold to be allowed. No more. It was Christmas and he was determined to enjoy a nice, peaceful holiday if it killed him.

  
In retrospect, that might not have been the best way to phrase it.

  
The fact of the matter was that it was his and Sherlock's fourth Christmas together and their previous Christmases had not been something to brag about - at least to normal people.

  
Yes, they had managed to celebrate their first Christmas as flatmates. They had even entertained guests. Irene Adler's fake death, the long-overdue end of Lestrade's marriage and John getting dumped again, however, were not conductive to proper holiday cheer.

  
They had spent their second Christmas in Norfolk, wading through seven inches of snow as they investigated a vicious triple homicide. By the time Sherlock had picked the Father Christmas responsible for the bloody mess out of a police line-up of shopping mall Santas, they had managed to miss Christmas dinner and Boxing Day, had gotten their socks thoroughly drenched in ice water, and had subsequently spent the rest of the year nursing a cold.

  
And the less one said about their third Christmas, which they had spent locked in the morgue of St. Bart's hospital, the better. Sherlock had finally freed them by blasting the door open with the aid of a) a cigarette lighter and b) the gases produced by a decomposing body. Understandably, it was not an experience John was keen on repeating anytime soon. Or ever.

  
This year, John would have none of that. He had put quite a lot of thought into how best to avoid a Christmas Catastrophe and had finally decided to pull out all the stops. First, he had phoned Lestrade and told the DI that he was not to contact Sherlock about any cases. No texts, no e-mails, no phone calls, no letters and no other means of communication were permitted and the same went for every member or associate of the Yard.

  
John had then spent five minutes out on the street, pointedly glaring at a CCTV camera, until a black car had slowed to a stop in front of him. The good doctor had suffered a twenty-minute conversation with Mycroft in which he managed to tell him that Sherlock would be unavailable to retrieve any crucial files, hard drives or anything else his older brother might want him to do; and that no, they would not be attending the annual family Christmas dinner, thank you very much. If Mycroft had been impressed by the doctor's attitude, he had refrained from commenting.

  
Only this morning, John had helped Mrs Hudson into a cab and wished her a nice stay at her sister's place, leaving him and Sherlock to their own devices. Speaking of sisters, Harry was currently on her third stint in rehab and thus not going to drop by for an unannounced and alcohol-induced visit.

  
Happy with himself and the world in general, John entered the kitchen just in time to catch Sherlock with his hand in the cookie jar. Literally.

  
And this was one of the many reasons why John Watson loved Christmas. Sherlock's sweet tooth, combined with Mrs Hudson's superb baking powers, worked against him in the most satisfactory way. John was sure that the consulting detective had gained no less than two pounds in the past two weeks. He may refuse to eat a proper meal while on a case, but strategically placed plates and jars with cookies, shortbread and gingerbread were a surefire way to get some much-needed calories into him.

  
"I wasn't eating them," Sherlock immediately defended himself, which would have been more convincing if the cookies in his mouth hadn't made it sound like "I wafn' eat'n 'em".

  
"Sure you weren't," John said fondly on his way to the kettle, then caught sight of the bowl on the kitchen table. "New experiment?"

  
"Punch."

  
John blinked, switched on the kettle and turned to face his flatmate. "Okay, what did you do to it?"

  
Sherlock's expression was open and innocent and John didn't trust it one bit. "Nothing."

  
John eyed the bowl warily but couldn't detect anything that suggested his madman of a flatmate had tampered with it. Of course that didn't mean he hadn't done anything. Sherlock was very good at making something look completely innocent only to have it later turn out to be potentially dangerous and definitely unsanitary.

  
Take the Christmas tree for example.

  
Initially, Sherlock had not wanted to put up a tree at all, his argument being that _apparently_ it was not socially acceptable to eat candy out of socks while sitting under a dead tree in one's living room any other time of the year and he did not see how Christmas should be any different. He had conceded after John had cunningly suggested that candy was not mandatory. The sweet tooth claimed another victim, this time in the form of a rather impressive Christmas tree.

  
There had been a catch, of course: Sherlock claimed the right to decorate the tree in any way he saw fit, though he had allowed John to add fairy lights.

  
As a result of their combined efforts, the Christmas tree of the Watson-Holmes household looked like something straight out of a police procedural.

  
The tree did sport a garland, one that Sherlock had spent hours arranging in an unprecedented fit of decorating energy. It was so beautifully arranged that one could almost miss the fact that it was actually crime scene tape. There were also two dozen tiny golden cones dangling from the branches. They looked pretty from afar and suspiciously like the bullets that fit into John's handgun up close, because that was what they were.

  
John had shrugged and accepted this, as he did with most things. That was why it had taken him several hours to catch on to what Sherlock's other "decorations" were.

  
From afar, they looked like completely ordinary square pieces of paper dangling from the tree. Up close, they still looked like that. But add some strategically placed black lights and they would turn into pieces of art. Naturally, each and every one of them depicted a rather grotesque crime scene. Where other people would have gone with invisible ink, however, Sherlock had spent some time with his microscope and luminous bacteria.

  
John shoved all thoughts of that particular decoration out of his mind and refocused on the punch bowl. "Alright then. Care to share a glass?"

  
Sherlock grinned and produced two glasses seemingly out of nowhere. "I thought you'd never ask."

  
The detective rarely drank alcohol, so John felt he had a right to be concerned about his sudden enthusiasm for punch. Then again, Sherlock might be gearing up for yet another experiment. One never knew. Not too long ago, John had returned home from work only to find every surface of the flat covered in a sticky green substance that later turned out to be Sherlock's failed attempt at making gummibears. On the plus side, removing that particular mess had also taken care of most of the dust, thus saving Mrs Hudson quite a bit of work.

  
Still, it was best to remain vigilant. "Are you sure it's drinkable?"

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Of course I'm sure. It's perfectly drinkable."

  
As if to underline his words, the detective proceeded to empty his own glass with four large gulps, setting the glass down with a huff. "See?"

  
"Oh, I see," John assured him. "I'm just not quite sure what it is that I'm seeing."

  
Sherlock had already flounced off into the living room and thankfully didn't catch that last comment. John looked down at his glass, shrugged and drank it all up in one go.

  
Pleasant warmth rushed through him, spreading out from his stomach. Ohh, this was good. And now the good doctor became acutely aware of what it was Sherlock had done to the drink.

  
Grinning widely, he refilled his glass before following his flatmate into their living room where he sank into his armchair. All thoughts of tea were forgotten. "Care to tell me why you decided to spike our punch?"

  
"It appears to be a popular custom with the general populace," Sherlock said, adopting the expression of a confused puppy as he always did when faced with the everlasting riddle that were social norms. "Not good?"

  
"Quite perfect, actually," John told him, raising his glass. "Cheers."

  
To be completely honest, when he had planned this peaceful holiday, getting ridiculously drunk with Sherlock had not even made it anywhere near his list of things to do, but John figured that everyone had a right to get drunk with their best mate at least once, so what the hell.

  
******

  
_December 24, 8:13 pm_

  
"John, why are there plants dangling from our living room ceiling?"

  
"Huh?"

  
John blinked and sat up straight, torn out of the blissful state Sherlock and his violin had kept him in for the past hour. He turned his eyes to the ceiling to see what the hell had caught Sherlock's attention this time.

  
"Oh."

  
Of course. He really should have known that Mrs Hudson would do this. John made a mental note to have a private chat with her at a later point. But for now he had to explain this to Sherlock. Maybe a diversion would do?

  
"You only noticed those now?"

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Don't be stupid, John. I asked earlier, but you wouldn't answer."

  
"Was that before or after I got home from work?"

  
The detective sniffed. "It's not my fault when you don't listen to me, John."

  
"I'd better invest in a hearing aid then, or maybe ask Mycroft to bug the flat for me so I can hear you talking while I'm a twenty-minute ride on the tube away from home. I'm sure old Mrs Jenkins would just love to hear you talking about chopped up bodies the police dragged out of the Thames while I'm examining her."

  
Sherlock made a face. "Did you have to mention my brother? It's Christmas, I deserve a day on which I'm not reminded of his tedious existence."

  
"Which is why I told him he was not allowed to call or otherwise contact you over the holidays," John said. "Merry Christmas."  
That actually seemed to cheer Sherlock up and he wordlessly raised his bow to continue playing while John went into the kitchen to refill their glasses. This punch was really fantastic, though he was trying to go slow. There was a lot of evening left, after all, and it wouldn't do to run out of punch ahead of time.

  
He was just refilling Sherlock's glass when the music stopped abruptly. "You still haven't answered my question."

  
Well, so much for that. "Right, sorry. It's mistletoe, Sherlock."

  
"I know what it is, John. Mistletoe is used in medicine to treat respiratory and circulatory system problems and to catch birds in South Africa. What I want to know is what it is doing dangling from our ceiling."

  
"It's also a very common Christmas decoration, if you must know," John said, trying very hard to keep a straight face as he thanked several higher authorities (one of which was possibly Mycroft) that Sherlock seemd to have deleted this particular bit of knowledge. "Mrs Hudson put it up."

  
Sherlock went back to playing.

  
******

  
_December 24, 10:35 pm_

  
Admittedly, it was quite late for dinner but John was hungry and Sherlock had indicated that he might not be completely averse to eating something other than cookies. And after four glasses of punch almost everything seemed like a good idea. John therefore didn't see anything wrong with getting the goose out of the fridge. He had meant to cook it the next day and it had already been stuffed, but he decided that now was as good a time as any to actually cook it.

  
He heaved the bird out of the fridge and onto a relatively clean spot on the kitchen table.

  
Then he tilted his head and examined it. And then he went and dragged Sherlock off the couch and into the kitchen.  
"Care to explain this to me?"

  
Sherlock looked at John, then at the bird, then back at John, who stood with his arms crossed and his back ramrod straight, feet planted slightly apart in what the detective recognized as his "I'm Captain John Watson, don't mess with me" stance. He decided not to take any chances.

  
"It's a goose."

  
"Well spotted," John said. "Anything else?"

  
"It appears to be both dead and featherless. It is also missing its head, which really wasn't conductive to experiments. And someone removed all the bones and inner organs and replaced them with ...stuff. It's an abomination, John! You should take it back to whomever you bought it from and make a complaint."

  
John could actually feel his jaw dropping, so he quickly reigned himself in and glared at his flatmate. "This goose," he said very slowly, making sure to articulate each word properly, "was meant to be our Christmas dinner tomorrow. You were NOT supposed to use it for experiments. I even put a note on it, for god's sake!"

  
His voice rose at the last sentence, but he really couldn't help it.

  
Sherlock looked caught halfway between petulance and chastisement. "There was no-"

  
John opened the fridge, blindly reached inside and pulled out the note, which he held up in front of the detective's face. It said:

  
 _"Christmas goose. Destined to be cooked for dinner. No experiments of ANY nature permitted. Do not touch. Do not poke with ANYTHING. Do not even look at it. As far as Sherlock Holmes is concerned, this goose is not even there. - JW"_

  
"Ohhh," Sherlock drawled. "You meant that note!"

  
"Yes, Sherlock, that one. Tell me, how _did_ you manage to ignore that?"

  
"I didn't see it!," Sherlock protested feebly.

  
John had to bite back laughter but he kept going. "Really? Despite the Police - Do Not Cross tape I draped all around it?"

  
If Sally Donovan or Anderson ever got to look into the fridge in 221b, they would probably have him committed in an instant, John thought.

  
Sherlock definitely looked embarrassed now. "I used the tape for the tree."

  
Of course he had. John sighed. "And the fridge didn't strike you as an odd place for me to store tape in?"

  
Several seconds ticked by in which Sherlock stared at him incredulously and John remembered who he was talking to.

Someone who made it a habit to store body parts in the tub and kept a colony of ants in one of the kitchen drawers obviously wouldn't pause to wonder at the presence of police tape in the fridge. Of course.

  
John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need a drink. And you ... bring the goose into the living room. If I can't eat it, I want to at least know what exactly you did to it - apart from filling it with firecrackers, I mean."

  
He preceded Sherlock back to the couch and poured a generous amount of punch into his glass. It caused a pleasant warmth to spread in his body and a slight buzz in his head. Perfect.

  
They spent the next half hour bent over the remains of what should have been their Christmas dinner, Sherlock explaining his latest experiment and John drinking punch and not even pretending to understand a word his genius of a flatmate was saying.

  
******

  
_December 24, 11:57 pm_

  
_'I'm durnk. Knurd. No that's the opposite. Drnuk. Drunk. That's it! I'm drunk.'_

  
After several more glasses of punch - he had stopped counting some time ago - the world had taken on a rather pleasant haze, he felt warm and comfortable and had not heard a single word Sherlock had said for the past thirteen minutes at least. No, he had been too busy watching his best friend's mouth move to concentrate on the words coming from him.

  
 _'But that's arlight. Arl.. al... it's okay.'_

  
He spent a lot of time staring at Sherlock, after all. Nothing new there. It was quite hard not to stare. Also, Sherlock was still talking. Looking at someone while they were talking was polite. Not that Sherlock cared about politeness. Ugh. What was it that he had been thinking about?

  
Oh right. He was drunk. And also hungry. After the discovery of the firecracker goose, he had been too distracted to remember food and now his stomach was growling rather loudly.

  
John struggled out of his chair and made his way into the kitchen. Walking had gotten a lot more difficult in the time since he had sat down. He bumped into the edge of the table and muttered a quick "Sorry" before opening the fridge to see if they had any food.

  
The light inside the fridge was a bit bright after the cozy dim lighting in their living room, so he had to blink a few times in order to focus.

  
Well, there were a pig's eyeballs, a severed left hand, Chinese take-out, a sad little salad and something that might have been a banana last week. After some careful consideration, John opted for the Chinese food, put it in the microwave and was already halfway back to his armchair before he remembered that he hadn't actually set the timer.

  
He was dimly aware that Sherlock had stopped talking a little while ago and was watching him with a rather odd expression on his face. It might almost be described as fondness, mixed with a healthy dose of amusement. John grinned back at him as he finally sat down and waited for his food to heat up.

  
"You're drunk," Sherlock told him, as if that wasn't already obvious.

  
John nodded. "So are you."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not nearly as drunk as you. At least I am still in possession of my fine motor skills. See?" He indicated the Christmas tree.

  
John craned his neck and dragged his gaze along Sherlock's obscenely long index finger towards their tree, which seemed to be flickering in places. Ah. Candles. Sherlock had put real candles on the tree and lit them. Must have done so while John was in the kitchen. The candles were yellow and the pleasing scent of bee wax wafted towards John.

  
"This is nice," he said. "Jus' don't burn the house down."

  
The detective rolled his eyes. "Please. As if I wasn't capable of watching a few candles."

  
"Of course you are," John agreed, not wanting to get into an argument. And it was true - Sherlock was more than capable of noticing if one of the candles accidentally set the tree on fire. As long as he didn't get distracted by something else, that was.  
And of course John wasn't that drunk. He'd been in the army, after all. He could hold his liquor. The point was, he didn't have to as long as Sherlock was there to keep an eye on everything while John kept both eyes on him.

  
"Would you like your present now?," Sherlock asked out of the blue.

  
John blinked. They didn't usually exchange presents, mainly because Sherlock didn't see the point and they also hadn't exactly had had a chance to on their past Christmases together.

  
"You got me a present?"

  
Sherlock beamed at him, jumping up in excitement. He was gone in a flash, his blue dressing gown sweeping dramatically after him. As was the norm on days spent soley at home, he hadn't bothered to actually get dressed in the morning and was still in his pajamas.

  
John thought he should probably have changed into something more comfortable as well, but he was too lazy to get up now.  
Sherlock returned a moment later, holding an awkwardly wrapped and rather lumpy parcel which he unceremoniously tossed into John's lap. "Merry Christmas."

  
"Uh... thank you," John said. "You know you didn't actually have to get me something, right?"

  
"Yeees,"  Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes. "But I wanted to."

  
There was nothing to be said about that, so John smiled and opened his present. It was a jumper, made from thick and heavy wool, the kind you could use as a pillow when not currently wearing it. It had probably cost more than all the other jumpers John owned combined, but he decided not to dwell on that.

  
"Thank you," he said sincerely, trying to catch Sherlock's gaze. "It's great."

  
Sherlock managed to look both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. John thought he looked adorable. "It was nothing," the detective muttered. "I went into the shop and asked for the most hideous jumper they had in your size. This was it. Knew you'd like it."

  
"I love it," John corrected him. The jumper wasn't hideous at all, which said a lot about what kind of shop Sherlock must have visited. "I've got something for you as well but I had a hard time wrapping it."

  
Sherlock looked intrigued but tried to sound casual. "Oh?"

  
John grinned. "A voucher for unlimited access to five crime scenes of your choice within the next year," he said. "Had to take Lestrade out for a pint or two to wheedle that out of him, but I thought you'd like that more than a new scarf or something equally normal."

  
Sherlock looked positively ecstatic.

  
******

  
_December 25, 00:21 am_

  
After their gift exchange, John had decided to switch from punch to tea and was starting to feel less buzzed, which was why he didn't mind when Sherlock decided to play the violin a bit more. They had sat and talked about some of their past cases and then Sherlock had gotten his "I've got an idea!" look that he only got when he arrived at the solution of a particularly interesting case or when a new composition popped into his mind.

  
This time it was the latter and John was more than happy to sit and listen und watch as Sherlock walzed around the room, his eyes closed as he played. He managed to avoid hitting any of the furniture or stacks of books as he did so and John soon relaxed his watchful guard a little. Of course Sherlock wouldn't smack into the desk or the tree by accident. He had the layout of the whole flat memorized after all.

  
While Sherlock composed, occasionally stopping to write down the notes, John admired the gruesome bacteria crime scenes dangling from their tree and let his thoughts wander wherever they pleased. If that happened to be his flatmate's lithe body, he wasn't about to question it. After four years of constant exposure to Sherlock Holmes, John's excuses and denials had worn rather thin until he had finally decided to just let it go. After all, it wasn't as if anything would ever happen between them, so there was no use getting all worked up over people misunderstanding.

  
He gave a mental shrug and let the soft sounds of the violin wash over him.

  
******

  
_December 25, 01:13 am_

  
Sherlock lowered his violin after a particularly nice part that had been rather more upbeat than the music he usually played.

  
"John," he said, nudging John's leg with his foot.

  
"Hm?"

  
"You're going to fall asleep in the next five minutes," Sherlock said.

  
"No, I'm not," John protested and yawned.

  
Sherlock looked amused. "Really?"

  
"Well, maybe I'm a little tired," John conceded. "The clinic was insane today."

  
"Yes, I saw. Why is it that so many people don't know how to treat a common cold?"

  
John shrugged. "I'm buggered if I know. - Wait. How did you know that was what happened?"

  
"You had that crease between your eyes that only appears when you had to deal with a bunch of patients who had no reason to be at the clinic in the first place," Sherlock said, carefully placing his violin back in its case.

  
"Right," John said for lack of a better reply. After all this time he really shouldn't be surprised anymore and yet his amazement at Sherlock's deductive skills had never worn off.

  
It was quite possible Sherlock was also right about him falling asleep soon. He did feel rather knackered and there was still enough alcohol in his system to make him feel a bit sluggish and lazy. "Time for bed then, I suppose."

  
He struggled out of his chair just as Sherlock straightened up after closing his violin case and turned around. John, momentarily caught off-guard by the sudden movement, forgot about the pile of books on the floor, lost his balance and swayed where he stood before gravity won and caused him to stumble against Sherlock, who tried to steady him with a soft "oomph".

  
John may be a head shorter than Sherlock, but he made up for it in muscle mass, which meant he was a bit heavier than people expected and Sherlock was consequently forced to step backwards to counterbalance the sudden addition of weight.

At the same time, John threw one foot forward to catch himself and take some of his weight off the detective, who was now completely unbalanced and couldn't lunge forward fast enough to avoid colliding with the tree behind him.

  
John reached out and grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt, forcefully pulling him towards him just as the tree toppled and fell to the side, right onto the coffee table.

  
The very same coffee table on which they had earlier set their Christmas goose. The goose that was stuffed with firecrackers.  
It was a very simple equation: _Christmas tree + real candles + goose stuffed with firecrackers._

  
The results were both predictable and inevitable and the goose exploded at approximately the same time as the tree's fairy lights' plug succumbed to the stain and popped out of the socket.

  
What followed was a very sudden, very loud darkness that didn't help two at least slightly tipsy men keep their balance and a moment later they found themselves lying on the floor.

  
 _And here we are..._

  
******

  
_December 25, 01:18 am_

  
Once the crackers have calmed down, there are a couple of seconds in which everyone is quiet. Then...

  
"Sherlock," John says, sounding rather breathless even to his own ears as he tries to process what the hell just happened. Oh right. The Christmas goose has just exploded. _Of course._ There are bits of goose sticking to his face and quite possibly the rest of the living room. He is almost glad he can't see anything.

  
The only reply he gets is a muffled "hrmph" which is not very helpful but at least he now knows that Sherlock hasn't broken his neck or knocked himself out.

  
That still leaves John with his best friend faceplanted into a rather sensitive part of his anatomy. Not that he minds, per sé. Which, admittedly, is the problem. The gush of warm air expelled by Sherlock's huff is not exactly helpful. Since the detective does not seem able or inclined to move anytime soon, John does the only thing he can do - he tries to scramble away. And promptly hits his head on the edge of the table.

  
"Ouch. Bugger," he curses, trying to sit up without doing himself further injury. "Alright there, Sherlock?"

  
"Fine," comes the muffled reply and it takes him a moment or two to realize that both his question and Sherlock's reply could be interpreted in two rather distinct ways. Of course by then it's already too late to not think about it and if something doesn't happen really soon ...

  
John reaches out and blindly grasps the first part of his flatmate he can find in the dark, which happens to be his shoulder. He tugs and pulls and a moment later Sherlock is more or less slumped against him, his whole body shaking.

  
Bit not good.

  
"Everything okay? Are you hurt?" A wave of concern washes over him, chasing away some of his irrational arousal.

  
He tries to find Sherlock's pulse in the dark, plants his fingers right on the other man's lips by accident, quickly drags them down and... and moves his hand right back up again as soon as his brain catches on to what his senses are telling him.

  
Sherlock is biting his lip, hard, his jaw tense and ... the bastard is trying not to laugh.

  
Trying and failing, because a moment later the laughter bursts through, right past John's fingers and into the darkness of their flat.

  
For a moment or two, John can only sit and stare in the general direction of his flatmate. A small snort escapes him, then a giggle, and the next thing he knows they're both laughing almost hysterically, side by side as their eyes slowly adjust to the dim light filtering in through the windows.

  
"Oh my god," John finally gasps, trying to catch his breath. "Shit."

  
Sherlock is still giggling.

  
"Stop it," John tries to admonish him, failing miserably. He's still grinning. "Shit, we're lucky most of the candles went out when the tree fell and didn't set anything on fire."

  
"Except for the goose," Sherlock rasps out and they're right back to laughing.

  
It takes them a couple of minutes to calm down and another minute or two until John feels his legs are steady enough for him to stand. Someone really should get up and turn on the lights, so he tries to do just that.

  
As it turns out, he miscalculated. He's nowhere near ready to get up off the floor yet, as evidenced by him stumbling and dropping right back down. He has managed to move in the right direction, though, at least a couple of inches. Unfortunately, all that means is that when he falls, the floor beneath him is already occupied by Sherlock.

  
There's more laughter, muttered apologies and some more scrambling until they have somehow managed to get their legs thoroughly entangled and it turns out that both of them trying to get up at the same time is not a good idea.

  
In the end, Sherlock is still flat on his back, in the very position John dumped him in after plucking him out of his lap, and John is somehow draped across his chest, his good leg awkwardly twisted between his friend's longer limbs.

  
"Sorry," he mutters again, even as Sherlock snickers to himself, and tries to move off of him again.

  
"There's a torch on the table somewhere," Sherlock tells him, one hand grasping at John's jumper to keep him from moving sideways.

  
"Alright," John says and stretches, trying to find the surface of the table and then the torch on said table. It takes some grasping and searching until his fingers finally close around something metallic and round that might just be a torch.  
"Got it," he says, rocking back down as he switches the light on. Both movements happen almost simultaneously and so John has the perfect view of Sherlock's face as he unconsciously lowers himself right onto the detective's lap.

  
Bit Not Good turns into Could Be Dangerous in a heartbeat.

  
For a moment, they're suspended there, Sherlock on the floor, staring up, and John on his lap, staring down. Their eyes meet, gazes holding. They swallow in synch.

  
This wasn't what either of them had in mind but now that the possibility is there, it's hard to say no. He can see Sherlock hesitate, consider, and then he reaches up, grasping John's frozen hand that's still holding the torch. Slowly, he turns it around, away from his face and up, towards the ceiling.

  
John can just about make out the smirk pulling at Sherlock's lips. He licks his own in response.

  
"John?"

  
"Yeah?" His voice is husky, barely recognisable.

  
Sherlock's grin widens. "There's a mistle toe hanging above your head."

  
He could say "Yes, I know." He could shrug it off. He could pretend he has no idea what Sherlock is talking about. What he says instead is: "If you know why it's there, why did you ask me about it earlier?"

  
Sherlock shrugs. "Just checking."

  
Right. John takes a deep breath. "Well?"

  
"Well what?"

  
"What are you gonna do about it?"

  
"Nothing," Sherlock says innocently and for a moment John feels like he's been punched in the lungs. Then: "There's not much I can do with you pinning me to the ground, John."

  
Oh. Right. Why is his heart racing all of a sudden?

  
"Want me to get up?"

  
"God, no!" The answer is immediate, certain. John thinks he might be just as certain as Sherlock sounds. Alright then.  
"You know, I thought you'd deleted that information about mistle toes," he says quietly, even as he's bending down, tugged steadily closer by Sherlock's hand still holding on to his jumper.

  
"I only delete information that I deem irrelevant to the Work," Sherlock points out, apparently determined to make his point. "There are lots of murders committed at Christmas, knowing all the common customs is relevant."

  
"Shut up," John tells him just before their mouths finally meet.

  
For once, Sherlock does as he's told.

  
******

  
Much later, as he lies in bed, watching the sunlight crawl in through the window as Sherlock sleeps by his side, John can't help but remember that he was actually hoping for a normal, quiet Christmas this year. He turns his head to look at the gorgeous expanse of Sherlock's back and the unruly dark curls that really do feel as amazing as they look, and smiles to himself. He leans over, presses a soft kiss to one exposed shoulder.

  
"Merry Christmas."

  
Normal is boring.

  
  
 **THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> A very merry Christmas to the entire Sherlock Fandom!
> 
> PS: Could you tell English is not my first language? If so, please let me know about anything that sounded weird so I can fix it.


End file.
